"Why won't it?" said Jordan. "Remember what happened the last time we got in touch with them."
"Not the same people," said Anti. "There were always some, like the doctor, who didn't think we had to be beautiful to talk to us or be near. We'll get more of that kind. They don't have to call unless they want to."
"And last time we weren't anybody, less than a thousand and not an important person in the lot. Now we're representatives to the Centauri system."
"Profit," said Jordan. "You think they won't be able to afford to show their feelings. I wish I could agree. But even with the gravity drive they can't carry much between here and Earth. In the next fifty years the trade that goes out of here won't make one person rich."
"I disagree. Ideas don't weigh much and there'll be lots of those flying back and forth. And was there ever anything more valuable?" Anti smiled. "But there's more. We won't be the same. Only yesterday Cameron said he saw Nona looking worriedly at a book. It won't be long before she gets the idea and wham—new books."
"She was never the one who had trouble. Anyway, she'll never speak."
"She doesn't have to as long as she can write—and get some idea of what we're saying."
"Then she's all right and that will make the doctor happy." Jordan was dubious. "But what of us—Docchi, Jeriann, me—the rest?"
Anti leaned back and slid off her sandals, wriggling her toes in voluptuously and looking at them with wondering pleasure. "Me? I don't plan to dance again, but in a year or so I'll get around. The doctor expects Docchi to have arms in the next three or four years if the principle he discovered with Maureen works out.
"And even you, Jordan, may be kicking again, though it will take longer. Say four or five years for you."